


erebus, disordered

by weirdoqueen



Category: Mass Effect, Mass Effect 2 - Fandom, Mass Effect 3 - Fandom
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-26
Updated: 2013-06-26
Packaged: 2017-12-16 07:14:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 18,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/859349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weirdoqueen/pseuds/weirdoqueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>the Illusive Man sees the value in keeping Shepard alive, and from this the Lazarus project was born. she turns out to be far more than humanity’s last hope—she may be his own, as well. their relationship is built through fragments of their lives arranged in beautiful entropy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> (note: these flashes are NOT in chronological order, so do not think of them as such  
> accompanying photoset by [aesfocus](aesfocus.tumblr.com) found [here](http://aesfocus.tumblr.com/post/34748782350/she-never-found-her-ice-her-sharp-and-piercing)!  
> fanmix located [here](http://www.mediafire.com/download/i2dmi69ipb124ry/Sharper.rar)!)

¬ 1

She has green eyes.  
She had been a colonist of Mindoir, in the Attican Traverse. She was born to a Latina mother, and an Arabic father. She had had two younger brothers—twins. When she was sixteen, slavers invaded the colony. She was the only to survive.  
She’s quite the cellist. Even better with a sniper rifle.  
She was chosen to lead the squad to clear the criminal base on Torfan. She killed every batarian there, even those who surrendered, and killed three quarters of her troops in the process.  
Commander Carmen Shepard, working with Cerberus to stop attacks on human colonists.  
It has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?

—

She was prettier than he would’ve thought.  
But then, she was a hero. It wasn’t at all surprising that she would be so… striking. So alarming. Because for a corpse on an operating table, she did manage to look pretty fearsome. Of course, that could also be because it wasn’t quite apparent where the melted armor ended and the charred skin began.  
“Not exactly a pleasant sight,” Miranda said, folding her arms as she stood beside him. He took a drag of his cigarette, not averting his eyes from the motionless body arranged on the operating table on the other side of the glass panel. The walls weren’t enough to muffle the sounds of bones being set, of machines picking away at flesh and scrubbing clean what was left of her skin.  
“It’s gruesome,” he replied, “but we’ll get it done.” He turned to her. “Won’t we, Operative Lawson?”  
“Of course we will.” She glanced at him, the usual smirk on her face. “It almost feels like you’re mocking me.”  
He brought his cigarette to his lips. “Never, Miranda.”

—

She dreamt constantly. At least, that was what the readings of her brainwaves said: constant rapid eye movement.  
Though in reality, her dreams were probably closer to nightmares. He visited her bedside once, to see up-close what his funds were going into, to know firsthand the progress that Project Lazarus was making.  
She jumped at him.  
Well, she tried to. But for someone with a body as injured as hers, it was impressive. He supposed that that was the Shepard legacy.  
Her eyes flew open, and her hands clawed at his wrists. The machinery was quick to give her an extra dose of sedative, but her fingers were tight around him for a short while before they fell limp.  
As he placed her hands back onto the operating table, a doctor came bustling in, asking him if he was all right, if Shepard was all right. He straightened his sleeves, nodded. “I’m fine, but that might not be true if that happens again. See that it doesn’t. Increase her sedatives.”  
Her eyes widened. “But sir, that high of a dose could—”  
“Shepard can take it, I’m sure.”  
“But—”  
“I _own_ her. _I’m_ the one who’s been putting billions of credits into her, into this project, into the future of all humanity. If a decision I make leads to her end, then so be it, I will have to live with that.” She just stood there, clutching her datapad to her chest. “Increase the sedative.”  
She nodded once.


	2. Chapter 2

2

He inspected the results of his investment as its hologram arranged itself before him—with the amount of credits he had put into Shepard, every bit of her had better be in its proper place.  
“Shepard. We meet.”  
He was impressed with Project Lazarus already. She spoke well, her movements natural, her assets… all seemed untouched. Unlike his own, unfortunately. Whether it was worth it remained to be seen.  
She herself mentioned the amount he’d paid for her. She spoke in such a way that when he picked up his glass of bourbon, it almost felt as though she had bought it for him. She would certainly be something to work with, to… experience.  
His eyes glanced at the way her hip was cocked as he asked, “How’re you feeling?”  
She smirked. “I noticed a few upgrades. Hope you didn’t change anything too important.”  
He mirrored her expression. “Project Lazurus’ mission was to keep you exactly the same, Shepard. If anything about you is different, it will have failed.”  
She glanced down—whether at her feet or his, he couldn’t tell. “I’ll have to check up on that. I’ll keep you updated.”  
But his smirk only stayed for so long before he returned to his intended topic—the Reapers. Her reconstruction. Anything she asked, he answered—for now, anyway. He wouldn’t tell her everything, of course. But she was starting a mission that served more than just him, more than just Cerberus—she was fighting for all of mankind. He needed her to trust him enough to think that he would leave her be. He would, of course, give her more freedom than any operative had had. But, she was still working for him, she was still _his_ —and the longer that was true, the more she believed in him—the better.

—

At one point, Miranda had suggested a control chip for Shepard. He briefly considered the idea, but the more he thought about it, the less sense it made—why should he go through the effort of rebuilding her if she was going to be a mere lackey? He could hire endless hordes of mercenaries if that was what was needed, but no—he needed _Shepard_ and he needed her as she was. Of course, her cybernetic implants offered some improvement, but those were minor adjustments that could not be helped.  
But he needed her for her drive, for her mind, for the fury with which she killed on Torfan and the lidded eyes that leered and smirked and terrorized all at once. A control chip wouldn’t leave those intact. A control chip wouldn’t leave _her_ intact. And she was what he needed.


	3. Chapter 3

3

Her eyes burned and smoked. It was hard for him to see that through just a hologram, but it was something else entirely when those eyes belonged to someone who was now sitting in his lap, and he wasn’t quite sure how.  
Someone was going to get fired for it, even if such a catastrophic breach of security had led to such pleasant company.  
“You’re not all that illusive, are you?” She ran a fingertip down his lapel. He shifted his hips beneath her.  
He smirked. “Don’t tell my backers. They might lose interest.”  
She slid her hips towards him, and his fingers curved into the fabric of her dress—a familiar material, if only because he was familiar with all aspects of luxury. His hands smoothed up over her to grip the top of her hips, skin sliding easily over the asari silk.  
She skimmed just her middle finger down his jaw, looking pointedly at his mouth before refocusing on his eyes. “I think you’ve still got plenty of assets for them to be interested in.”  
He briefly wondered where she had acquired the musk that tingled in his nostrils, or the sapphires—or no, were they diamonds?—that adorned her neck and ears, and with what funds she had purchased them. No matter—he would have known if someone had dipped into his credit reserves, and besides, even blue diamonds would hardly make a dent in his supply.  
“You’ve got enough assets to last us as many lifetimes as we could want, Shepard.” His hands slid down again to cup her curves, and she arched towards him in response.  
She grinned. “I’ve already lived two, you know. I’m going to have to hold you to that.”  
He flicked a finger beneath her chin. “I wouldn’t expect anything less from you.” He reached for his glass of whiskey. She turned his face towards her with the finger on his cheek. His brow quirked.  
“I think we’ve reached a first name basis, don’t you? Call me Carmen.”  
He smirked as he swirled his glass, brought it to his lips— “I’ll think about it.”  
He drank.  
She snatched the glass away. He remained perfectly still, though his diode-blue eyes trailed up her body until they finally met her own bright red and jade gaze.  
She held the glass away at bent-arm’s length, and dropped it.  
It took ages for the damn thing to fall and finally shatter on the perfectly polished tiles below.  
He glanced down at the pile of shards, then back up at her.  
“That was my favorite glass, you know. Fine Thessian crystal.”  
“Thessia, hm? Thought you were about bringing humanity forward. What’ll Earth think when they find out you’re buying asari glass? Or, better yet—asari ass.”  
He snorted quietly. “Nice one, Shepard.”  
“Carmen,” she repeated. “A matriarch, hm?”  
His hands were at her waist now, pressing her down against him. “I wasn’t aware we were exclusive, Shepard.”  
“ _Carmen_. I wasn’t aware we were anything.”  
He lifted his hands from her to pull a cigarette and a lighter out of his breast pocket. "I’ll call you by your first name when you call me by mine.” He wrapped his lips around the filter, taking a slow pull at the ashes so finely rolled between the parchment, holding the swirl of smoke within his mouth for a moment, then blowing a puff into her face. “We are certainly something.” As she scowled at the smoke, he smoothed his hand along her thigh, beneath the slit of her dress. “Business partners, at the very least.”  
“Is that what you consider business, then?” she asked, slinging her arms around his neck. “Am _I_ what you consider business?”  
He gave her a gentle push away from him, meaning to stand. The holograms of data and charts and intel flickered away as he slipped her hand in his, as his other palm settled at her waist, and hers on his shoulder.  
“You were an investment, Shepard,” he said as their feet began to take lazy, perfectly measured steps in time to a nonexistent beat, the heels of their shoes resonating against the room's circumference. The sun outside the long window roared in silence, the vacuum of space stilling any sound that might’ve occurred. “You know that. You’re still an investment, even with the Collector base neutralized. But you’re my greatest asset, you’re _humanity’s_ greatest asset. You’re not easily replaced. To me, Shepard, you’re just business. But to me, everything is business.” For a moment, there was a smile in his cyber-blue eyes. Or perhaps it was just the way the red sunlight danced on his smoke-worn skin. “It’s up to you to decide what that means.”  
She snorted. “Bullshit, no matter what I decide, whatever _you_ think is the only thing that matters.”  
He smirked, dropped her into a dip. “You’re smart, Shepard.” Back out of the dip. “I’ll give you that.”  
She rolled her eyes. “Can it, and stop being coy with me.”  
“What’s wrong? You said I wasn’t all that illusive, after all,” he sneered, though he was cut short by a kiss that even caught Shepard off-guard. Their lips almost tingled. He exhaled a half-breath, one forever stained by cigarettes and fine liquor. With the edge of her thumb she wiped off trace amounts of lipgloss that her mouth had left behind.  
“Don’t tell me I’m ‘just business’ when I just survived a suicide mission, when I’ve already died once, when I’m probably going to die at least another few times on whatever the hell mission I’ve got coming up.” Her voice was low, its fury controlled, and struck through with fear. “If you care about humanity, you care about _me_ ;, damn it, don’t tell me I’m—don’t say I’m just that.” She gave a little start as she felt a glass pane behind her, then relaxed as his fingers traced the curve of her cheek, his lips parting against hers and then finally pressing, flexing, biting, hands hovering at her face for an instant before one arm braced against the glass and the other rested at her neck as he just kissed her, over and over again.  
He pulled away, resting his forehead against hers, his mouth not quite forming words until he managed, “I _care_ , Shepard.”  
She pursed her lips and her expression fell. She slipped away from him, gathering her hair up away from her shoulders as she walked away.  
“Shepard—Shepard, wait!” he called after her. He sighed, gritting his teeth, running a hand through his silvered hair. “Carmen.”  
She stopped, looking at him over her shoulder, brows raised, eyes expectant and hopeful. Her arms lowered from her scalp as he approached, her hair falling back down over her shoulders. With a smooth swipe of his hands, both of her dress’s sleeves slid from her shoulders and the silk pooled around her feet. She felt him exhale on her neck as one of his hands skimmed over a bare breast—her backless dress allowed for no bra—and the other settled at the lace of her thong. She placed her hand on his shoulder, her head angling towards him as his kisses migrated towards her mouth. He placed both hands on her collarbone, then, and pulled away entirely, heading back for his chair.  
She blinked, turning as her eyes followed him. As her feet carried her to him.  
And then they’d come full circle. Her legs straddled his lap as they kissed. One of his hands knotted in the lace below the dimples of her back as the other stroked at her neck, settling upon the jewels that rested there.  
When their breathing was heavy, when their chests heaved and their skin promised sweat he pulled away again.  
“Jack,” he breathed.  
She squinted, uttering a confused “What?” as her nails clawed at his neck and one of his hands reached up to greet it, grab it, and hold it.  
“Jack. My name—is Jack.” He looked up to meet her gaze. “Jack Harper.”  
She smiled at him, eyes wrinkling and all.  
He wasn’t sure if he’d ever seen her do that before.  
She interlaced their fingers, smoothed her free hand over his cheek. “I love you, Jack Harper.”  
The corners of his own lips lifted, and the weariness left his eyes. “I—”  
She cut him off with a kiss.  
She didn’t need to hear it; he had already made it clear.

At some point they migrated to his bed, at some point they both lost all of their clothes. At some point he bent her over his mattress and their hips had turned red with impact. They paused every so often for a glass of liquor, or a cigarette for him, or he’d suddenly cringe and pause. As experienced as he was, as experienced as the two of them were, she _was_ Shepard, and he was starting to get on in years. He liked to think he could last a while—he didn’t believe he was the best, but he liked to think he was at least better than some— but after he came a sixth time that night—or maybe it was day, he really couldn’t tell with that damn sun blazing all the time—he broke down, and with the last breath in his lungs, said, “Shep¬¬¬¬¬…Carmen, I—I just can’t,” and she’d shush him and brush the sweat from his forehead and his eyes would be the only light she could see. But then she’d give him a quick kiss and he’d pull her back to him as she drew away and one kiss became two, then three, and then she’d be curved on top of his tired form and he figured yes, he couldn’t handle any more, but that didn’t mean _she_ couldn’t, so he’d settle her beneath him and sink below her navel and time would carry on.  
And when he lay again beside her, she kissed his mouth clean, and they calmed for a while.  
And suddenly her eyes widened, she uttered profanities, and said she hadn’t used any form of contraceptive in… Well. Not since long before she was killed. And he tried assuaging her with a curt “Carmen, you’re not going to get pregnant,” only she took it the wrong way, and she turned on him, and she snarled and roared and asked him what he did, what he did to her in those two years, what those goddamned scientists changed in her that made her this way, but he maintained his steel calm and told her, “Project Lazarus aimed to keep you exactly the same as you were. Besides a few cybernetic implants to keep you intact, it held true to that aim. Whatever you were before you died…”  
He stopped when he saw her break. He frowned, he pitied, and pulled her to him, stroking her hair and kissing her forehead as she quietly trembled against him until finally he curled around her, making her look as small ¬¬as she felt.  
He didn’t know why he had to tell her that, he didn’t know why he couldn’t just tell her not to worry, he’d had a vasectomy years ago, and they’d laugh it up and be ready for another nine rounds when they woke up but no, he’d had to have been a damned idiot about it.  
It didn’t really matter, he told himself as he felt her body still and her face nuzzle deeper into his neck; they weren’t cut out for happy endings, anyway.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  fanart by [lucineandtheraptors](lucineandtheraptors.tumblr.com).

4

Her fingers traced down the lines of his neck, old lines, smooth lines, lines hardened and weary. She smoothed her hand over his chest, resting above the measured thrum of a heartbeat that many would say had gone on too long.  
She’d kill anyone who tried to do more than simply say it.

—

Shepard rubbed at her eyes as she dragged herself to the debriefing room.  
“What is it he wanted to talk about?” she mumbled as the table split and the hologram platform came into view.  
“ _He did not say_ ,” EDI replied.  
“Of course he didn’t,” she muttered, then yawned, pulling her robe a little tighter around her.  
“Shepard,” he greeted as her hologram assembled itself before him, “Good to see you.”  
“Yeah, great, now what the fuck do you need me for, I’m goddamn tired.”  
He tapped the ashes off his cigarette, noting that his ashtray would soon need emptying, before taking another drag. “I know it’s late, but—” he exhaled the smoke “—there’s no need to speak with such…enthusiasm.”  
She rolled her eyes. “Cut the crap, what do you want?”  
“I have new intel for you, Shepard. I’m sure you’ll find it quite—” Shepard had placed her hands on her hips. Her loosely tied robe had slipped just enough that he could catch the glint of metal at her navel that shone even through the lace there, and there did his eyes focus.  
“…Interesting,” he finished.  
She raised a brow, noting where his gaze sat. “See anything of note?” she asked, crossing her arms, loosening the knot of the robe’s sash even further.  
He gestured at her abdomen with the hand that held his cigarette. “How long have you had that?”  
“This?” she undid the sash and pulled aside the lace so her spiked barbell was visible.  
He ran his tongue over his teeth.  
“Since before Lazarus, I can tell you that.” She put the fabric back in its place.  
He tilted his head as he took a long pull of his cigarette, letting the smoke fully escape his mouth before he spoke. “Really. I’ve never noticed it.”  
Shepard’s other brow rose to meet the first. “Huh. Didn’t know you’ve ever seen that much of me.”  
“You were on an operating table for two years, Shepard. Go figure.”  
Shepard snorted. “So, then, who in Cerberus _hasn’t_ seen me naked?”  
He smirked. “Project Lazarus was only a small faction, involving only the finest scientists—as well as Miranda and myself, of course. Besides, you were in a much different condition then; I’m not sure how many would be able to recognize you without armor burned into your skin.”  
Shepard’s lip curled in distaste. His lips twitched in a frown, one born out of practice rather than pity. He frowned. “Sorry for the image, but it’s just fact.”  
She waved a hand. “Yeah, right. What did you want to tell me?”  
“How do you do battle with that? Doesn’t it catch on your armor?”  
She blinked at the question, then once more settled her hands on her hips, her robe now completely open. He took the opportunity to eye every bit of black lace that was—or wasn’t—on her person. He thumbed the filter of his cigarette; the fingertips of his free hand seemed to itch. “Sure. If I lean a bit too forward, it pokes me, and it’s sharp. But I’m Commander Shepard, I’ve defeated Saren, Sovereign, and the geth, and I’ve been spaced, I can take a little bit of pain when I bend over.”  
He chuckled as he reached to extinguish the nub of his cigarette in the ashtray.  
“Now,” she continued, “What did you want to tell me?”  
He took his bourbon glass in his hand, pointing his index finger at her as he said, “That’s not standard issue.”  
Out of reflex, she looked down at her lace teddy, then rolled her eyes. “I like to look good under my armor, so what? Now what the hell did you want to tell me?”  
He set his glass down as he swallowed his liquor, then steepling his hands. “I’ll be honest with you, Shepard—there is no intel.” She snorted. “I’ve been thinking about you, Shepard. I—” He paused as he watched the thick arch of her brow climb upwards once more.  
“So you called me up here to tell me you’ve got a schoolgirl crush on me?” she sneered, arms crossed once more.  
He tilted his head, raising his glass to his lips. “I think I’m old enough to have outgrown those.”  
She cocked a hip. “So what is it, then?”  
He set his glass back down. “I want you, Shepard. Plain and simple.”  
She snorted. “And that’s different _how_?”  
He absentmindedly rubbed his thumb and middle finger together, looking a bit thoughtful.  
“Because I’m not sure if I like you yet.”  
She snorted again. “I’ve listened to your orders without question, I’ve embraced Cerberus more than I ever thought I would—what’s not to like?”  
“Sure, we get along—but that’s not the same as being fond of one another.”  
She was quiet for a moment, but even through the hologram, he could see the curious mischief in her eye.  
“Do you expect me to do something about it?”  
He tilted his head as he regarded her, picking his glass up and transferring it to his far hand.  
“You’re Commander Shepard.” He raised the glass to his lips. “You tell me.”  
She smirked. He raised a brow and inclined his head as she shrugged out of the robe, as though it would offer him a better view than what was already a front row seat—and the only seat in the house, of course. Excluding EDI. He’d have to tell the techs to wipe this time frame from the AI’s memory.  
“Do you always get women to undress this way? Wake them up at insane hours of the night so they just can’t be assed to say no?”  
He stood, pulling a cigarette out of his inside breast pocket as he did so, then lighting it. “All the women I sleep with are capable of expressing their wishes.” He took a deep drag from the cigarette. “I think you can gather what their wishes were.”  
“The same as mine, maybe?” she asked, nudging a strap of her teddy towards the curve of her shoulder.  
“I learned long ago not to make assumptions, Shepard. I know full well what happens.”  
She smirked as she slid one strap far enough to expose a breast, but his back was turned, he was walking away.  
“You missed the good part,” she pouted as he reclaimed his seat.  
He tapped off the ashes from his cigarette. “I haven’t missed anything else.”  
“Not one for a show, hm?” Her chest was exposed now, and she began to peel off the rest of the scant lace outfit.  
He loosely crossed his legs. “Of course—when the mood strikes.”  
“And it’s not now?” She stepped out of the puddle of lace at her feet, nudging it behind her. She stood with her arms braced on her hips. He tilted his head and took his time in inspecting her form.  
“Your scars haven’t healed,” he remarked, gesturing towards the breaks in her skin.  
“They haven’t, no. I did wake up early, if you recall.”  
He blew out a stream of smoke. “I do. A mistake that shouldn’t have happened, but you don’t seem much worse for wear. Have you seen Dr. Chakwas about them?”  
Shepard’s face scrunched slightly. “She said the med bay wasn’t upgraded enough to actually deal with them, but a calm outlook will make them naturally go away I don’t fucking know.”  
He ran his fingertip over the rim of his bourbon glass. “If the med bay needs an upgrade, I can provide it with one.”  
She shrugs. “I rather like them, actually. But if you want to, go ahead. Now can I do something besides standing around?”  
He took a pull of his cigarette, recrossing his legs. “Be my guest.”  
She raised a brow, smirk pulling at her lips as she reached back to tie her hair up in a knot. “That’s it? I expected more from you. I thought you would’ve taken more lead.”  
He leaned back. “It’s my job to take the lead, Shepard. I hope you don’t mind if I decide to sit this one out.”  
She grinned widely, running hands over her breasts, cupping them, then continuing down the rest of her body. He watched as her hands strayed lower and lower, then silently cursed as they jumped back up to her chest and remained there, her palms working over flesh. His gaze soon trailed to her neck, watching her neck’s tendons and curve as her head fell backwards and her hand once more slipped below her navel.  
When that first tiny whimper broke from between her lips, he almost wanted to echo it. Instead, he crossed his legs a little tighter and pulled at his trousers with his fingertips. He frowned as she pressed her lips shut, remembering that the Normandy’s walls were, unfortunately, not completely soundproof.  
He watched as she made herself shiver, as her hand and fingers and hips rocked in differing rhythms, as her body fell into a perfect dissonance. When he stood, her eyes locked on him, but his wandered over each inch of her body, and though the hologram could not show her in detail, she could feel his eyes on each scar, each bruise, each tendon and each pore.  
But she had to break her gaze as her eyes rolled back and her teeth bit into her lip and her head fell back and—  
“Stop.”  
Shepard glared. “Why should I stop?” Her voice was breathy, and tinged with agitation. But she slowly calmed as her gaze properly focused and she saw just how close he was, how his fingertips reached for her image. She took a step forward out of reflex, glanced down to see the curve at his groin, visible even through the projection. Her fingers reached for it, for him, but broke through the light. His own fingers mirrored her movement, then skimmed up the light of her hologram, their lips drifting closer to each other. Her own hands returned to her body and continued their motions until she finished, her lips against the image of his. She blinked, her green eyes meeting his harsh blue. Her mouth opened to speak, but sound did not immediately escape.  
“…I…should go.” She put on her robe, clutching her lingerie in her fist, and walked away.  
He stood there, hand raised, still reaching to touch her cheek.


	5. Chapter 5

5

She didn’t even wait for the scanner to completely assemble her hologram before she spoke, voice terse, arms crossed.  
“Recruiting Jack was a mistake.”  
He brought his cigarette down from his lips, tapping excess ashes into the tray by his hand.  
“And why is that?”  
“She hates Cerberus.”  
“It’s more than that, I suspect.” He settled further into his chair.  
Shepard’s eyes twitched in a narrow. “How? Is there something I should know?”  
“All will be revealed in due time, Shepard.” He took a drag of his cigarette. “You’ll just have to be patient.”  
She chewed at the inside of her cheek. “Patience isn’t exactly my _thing_.”  
“That’s too bad.” He tilted his head. “If it’s true. But I find that hard to believe. You’re a sniper, Shepard. It’s something that requires patience as you wait for your target to settle into your scope—or am I incorrect?”  
She smirked. “I’m not your average sniper.”  
He refrained from mirroring her smirk. “Of course you aren’t.”  
She rolled her eyes, refolding her arms. “What about Jack? What about her aren’t you telling me?”  
He shook his head, again reaching over his lap to do away with the ashes on his cigarette. “It’s something that you’re better off hearing from her.”  
She quirked a brow. “Is… I can’t tell if that’s a good or bad sign.”  
“Interpret it as you will, Shepard. You’ll hear what she has to say. What you want to do with that information is up to you.”  
Shepard was quiet for a while. “She asked to go through Cerberus files, otherwise she wouldn’t come with us. I told her I’d give them to her.”  
His words were swirled with the smoke of his most recent drag. “Did you mean that?”  
“Of course not.”  
This time he didn’t hold back his smirk. “Regardless, if she wants the data, she can have it. The files Miranda can provide her with aren’t vital to our cause—” He paused to take one final pull at his cigarette. “—and something tells me the information she would want is harmless, in essence.”  
“…So I should tell Miranda to give her the files?”  
“That’s your decision.”  
She looked at him for a long time. He knew she wasn’t trying to intimidate him, but he couldn’t help but tense just slightly under her naturally harsh gaze. Still, he patiently stared back, every so often taking a sip from the glass of bourbon at his side.  
“It’s my decision, huh?” she finally said.  
“You have full reign over your mission, Shepard.” He drank from the glass. “I’m only here to offer intel, and guidance, should you seek it.”  
She pursed her lips, and disconnected from the call.

—

Batarians made her trigger fingers itch.

—

“The _fuck_ were you thinking?”  
His brow quirked at her slurred speech.  
“Shepard, you’re drunk.”  
“Like hell I am, answer my goddamn question.”  
He took his time blowing out smoke, then lifting his bourbon glass, giving it a lazy swirl, and taking a sizeable drink, then finally setting the glass down.  
“I would. But I don’t know to what you’re referring.”  
“Jack. Pragia. The motherfucking Teltin facility what the _fuck_ were you thinking?”  
He steepled his hands. “I’m surprised at you, Shepard. Given your past actions, I didn’t think that would bother you much.”  
She ran a hand over her hair. “Fuck. If a kid wants to fuck up his life, that’s his own decision, but don’t you fucking steal kids or buy them from fucking _slavers_ or whatever because then you’re fucking up his life and that’s not _right_!”  
He took a drag of his cigarette as she spoke, blowing rings of smoke off to the side. When he no longer heard her speaking, he looked at her hologram. She winced slightly, pressing fingers to the bridge of her nose.  
“Are you finished?”  
“Fuck you,” she muttered.  
“Shepard—” He paused a moment, carefully choosing his words, speaking slowly. “Everything I do is for humanity’s benefit. Everything I do aims to further our goal: to protect humanity, to advance it so we can better defend ourselves against forces such as the Collectors, or the Reapers. But you should know that the Teltin facility went rogue; the team’s actions there were certainly regrettable. But I was not responsible for what happened to Subject Zero, or any of the other children there.”  
Her lip curled. “You still brought them there. They still have you to blame, don’t _fucking_ try to weasel your damn way out of this!”  
He pursed his lips, sighed through his nostrils. “Perhaps. That burden is mine to bear. But, as you said, some of those children were purchased from slavers; they wouldn’t have fared much better if I hadn’t intervened. Others still were spared lives of poverty and grief. The lives I gave them weren’t ideal, I’ll admit—but I at least put a roof over their heads, I gave them food, clothing, protection. Would I have repeated the study knowing the course it would take? No, of course not. But that’s in the past, there’s nothing I can do about it.”  
She glared at him. “You’re still an asshole.”  
“You should see Dr. Chakwas, Shepard.”  
“She’s as hammered as I am.”  
The corner of his mouth twitched upwards. “Then you should get to bed. Good luck with the hangover.”  
He severed their connection.  
“Fucking cunt,” she sneered.


	6. Chapter 6

6

She performed stripteases for him on some days. The first time, he smirked and told her he’d seen better. She snarled and threatened to steer the Normandy into his sun. The next few times she performed, she’d visibly improved.  
He never stopped smirking.  
—

He used to love to cook, and he was good at it, too. He figured he ought to start again sometime.

—

It was a lazy morning at Cronos Station.  
She woke up early, wandered around until she found a kitchen, as well as a few people within. Jack’s chefs, she presumed. Their eyes widened a bit when they saw her; she _was_ Commander Shepard, after all, and hers was a face the whole galaxy knew. Besides, her scars could be a little bit unsettling for those who were not used to seeing them.  
“Can I get you anyth—”  
“You got a coffee machine here?” she asked, rubbing at an eye.  
“Certainly, I’ll get you a c—”  
She lazily waved a hand, yawning. “If I wanted you to make me a cup I’d ask for that.”  
“Right. Sorry.” The chef led her to a coffee machine, showed her where they kept their arrays of beans.  
Shepard smiled at the woman—a faint thing, but a smile nonetheless—thanked her, and went about making a pot.  
As she waited for the water to boil, she leaned against a nearby counter top, fingering the collar of her shirt—it was Jack’s, the one that he’d discarded last night. _Hell_ , was it soft. He really did get the finest of everything.  
She glanced around, making sure no one was paying attention to her, then lifted the collar just enough to inhale its scent. The fine fabric was tinged with remnants of his cologne, and of course cigarettes and a hint of alcohol, but beneath all those she swore she could still find trace amounts of his own smell.  
Eventually she finished making the coffee and filled two mugs, picking them up and returning to the bedroom. The room was situated beneath his office, thus still retaining a view of the dying star. However, it did have a shutter, in case one day he preferred to be bathed in something other than orange and blue light, and the ceiling lights could be adjusted should he seek more light. Currently, they were dim, but the room was still noticeably brighter than his office.  
The door slid open as she entered the room. He had just finished pulling on a fresh pair of trousers. A quiet smile alighted upon his face when he looked at her.  
“I made coffee. Hope you like it black.”  
“I do,” he said, approaching her. “How did you know?”  
She shrugged one shoulder. “I didn’t. I like black. I was lucky, I guess.”  
The corner of his mouth pulled upwards. His gaze fell to her shirt, and he thumbed the collar. “I was wondering where this had gone off to.”  
Her lips spread into a lazy smirk. “What, me or the shirt?”  
“Both,” he murmured. His hand abandoned the shirt to curve against her neck, idly rubbing her skin. She drew in a shaking breath, stepping closer, setting the mugs on a sidetable before placing a hand flush against his chest. She inclined her head and his lips came to hers, soft touches and brushes that grew longer and firmer with each passing moment. Soon he broke away, taking hold of her hand as he sat back on the bed, settling against the pillows as he pulled her into his lap. She bent down to crush her lips against his, and he reached down to unzip his trousers and push them down his hips. She straightened enough to pull his stiffening shaft from his trousers and guide it into her. He let out a soft moan, hands settling on her haunches as she began to rock against him.  
As she moved, as their breath quickened and their vocal chords let loose quiet sounds, his hands inched up her sides until finally he peeled the shirt off her body, tossing it aside. For a moment he leaned back and watched her scarred body move in the sun’s light, her olive-tan glimmering with hot and cold. Then, he leaned forward, one arm propping him up against the mattress, the other pressing her body to his lips as he kissed his way up her body, his tongue tracing its way around her scars. She looped an arm around his shoulders as his mouth slid over her nipples, gently biting, then sucking at her, until finally he reached his hand up to knot in her tousled hair and pull her down to him. He grinded his hips against hers, a few thrusts slapping against her, and she moaned against his mouth. His hand slid back down her torso as he once more leaned back, letting her take control as he accented her movements with his own body.  
She arched her back as she moved against him, rhythm growing faster as they neared their release, until soon their heads fell back and their muscles tensed and they felt heat threading out from their cores and for a moment they lost feeling in their fingers and toes. She let out a sigh as she eased off of him and collapsed beside him, and in turn he arched over her, nuzzling a kiss onto her neck, her clavicle, then resting his cheek against her breast, his ear to her heart.  
She gave him a lopsided smile, running a hand through his silvered hair. “Still tired?” she asked.  
“You’re not exactly easy to keep up with.”  
She chuckled quietly, careful not to dislodge him. “I’m amazed you’d admit that.”  
“I know my limits, Carmen, and you like to push them. Not that I don’t enjoy it. I just… require a bit of rest and relaxation.”  
“Relaxation, hm?” she purred as he pushed his torso off the mattress and crawled over her. She trailed a fingertip over his collarbone. “I might be able to help with that.”  
He smirked, planted a kiss on the scar on her brow. “You already have.”


	7. Chapter 7

7

“Shepard?”  
Shepard glanced at Miranda from down the dining table.  
“Yeah?”  
“I… On Ilium. With Oriana?”  
Shepard quirked a brow, waiting.  
“You… I must admit, I was a bit surprised when you suggested I speak with her,” she finally said.  
Shepard stared down into her glass of water. “Really.”  
“You… tend to take a more _practical_ view of things. I was expecting you to just nod your head and order us to return to the Normandy. But instead…” She cast an uncertain glance at Shepard. “I don’t mean to pry, but… why?”  
The corner of Shepard’s mouth tugged upwards. “That question couldn’t get any more prying, Miranda.”  
The woman grimaced. “Sorry, Commander. If… you don’t want to talk, I—”  
“How much do you know about me?”  
“I spent two years learning about you, Shepard. If it was in a record, I know it.”  
Shepard continued staring into her water. “You know about my family, then. On Mindoir?” She brought the glass up to her lips as she cast a sideways glance at Miranda, who nodded. She took a sip of water.  
“My mom, my dad, my twin brothers—it was a good family. We lived in a nice place.” Her lips curved slightly at the memory. “Mindoir was beautiful.” Her smile died. “And then the batarian slavers came and slaughtered all of us. I lost my friends, my family.” She sighed, running a hand down her face, over her scars. “I was a sister with no brothers.” She turned her gaze to Miranda, her eyes a bit soft. “I didn’t want that for you, or your sister.” Her face fell, and she returned to staring into her glass of water.  
Miranda’s hands flexed; she wanted to touch Shepard, to reach out to her, but she feared how her Commander would react. Instead, she sighed, giving the woman a forlorn look, though her gaze was left unmet.  
“Shepard…” She shook her head, ignoring her fears to place a hand on Shepard’s shoulder. Her shoulder tensed for a moment, and Miranda relaxed when there was no further reaction. “Thank you. So much.”  
Shepard didn’t respond in any way. She stared into her water a moment longer, grip briefly tightening. She stood, Miranda watching as she walked away.  
“Shepard,” Miranda called, standing up. The Commander stopped, turning her head slightly. Miranda hesitated for a moment, then finally, “I’m sorry.”  
Shepard sighed. “Miranda, if you were the one who owed me an apology, you’d be dead.”  
“I… Understood, Commander.”

—

She loved to play the cello.  
Her mother played piano, but only as a hobby. Her father, however, used to play double bass and viola professionally. He used to play a myriad of strings, for his whole life. He taught her cello, and her two brothers violin. They’d played quartets together. Sometimes her mother accompanied them. Her father picked up the parts for the latest arrangements composed on Earth, or he’d dig through his files for work of the ancients, of Beethoven and Schubert. As she grew older, she played more solo pieces, she truly fell in love with her instrument, and with music. Where once playing with her family was an annoyance and an obligation she detested, as she matured she looked to it as an opportunity to further lose herself in the art.  
She even meddled in composing, on occasion. When her father found out, she was oddly embarrassed, perhaps afraid that her compositions seemed childish. But he chuckled, said “Here, _hayati_ , I’ll help you.” _Hayati_ —he called her his life. Every other sentence, he’d call her something in Arabic; she had the terms memorized, by now.  
She missed the feel of a bow in her hands and strings beneath her fingertips, of closing her eyes to better hear the quiet clarity of a single note, but she’d never before had enough spare funds to purchase a cello. Now, though, with a steady trickle of Cerberus funding finding its way into her personal account, she had money to spare.  
She’d asked Miranda, at first. Not even to buy the cello, just to locate her one; she’d never actually purchased one herself before; after all, she’d always had her father for that. Miranda shrugged, but complied, and found her a place on Ilium where Shepard purchased the instrument with her own funds. It wasn’t brand new, and it wasn’t great quality to begin with, but it suited Shepard’s needs, and after she tuned it and restringed it, it sang. Of course, she was certainly rusty, so its singing was full of coughs and cracks and sputters and chokes, but she’d dug up the Prelude of Bach’s First Suite in G—one of her favorites—on the extranet and she sat and she played until her hands cramped, until her fingers burned, until she could play the piece in her sleep.  
Hardly a day had passed and the Illusive Man called her into the debriefing room.  
“I see you’ve picked up the cello again,” he said, lighting a cigarette.  
“Did Miranda tell you?”  
“No. But I saw her search history, and you’re the only one aboard the ship to play.”  
Shepard crossed her arms. “Is there going to be a problem?”  
“Not at all.” He took a drag of his cigarette, exhaling the smoke as he spoke. “I can appreciate such a talent.”  
“…So you called me here to tell me you _don’t_ have a problem?”  
He tapped off the excess ashes into the tray, then steepled his hands. “I’d like you to play for me.”  
She raised her brows in disbelief.  
“You’re free to refuse if you’d like.”  
The corner of her mouth tugged into a smirk. “I’ll be right back.”  
She returned with a chair in one arm and her cello and bow in the other. And she sat down. And she played.  
The Prelude was a brief song, less than two minutes in total. But when she glanced up only a few moments into the piece, he saw his eyes were closed, head tilted just slightly back. Some might think he had fallen asleep, of all things, but she knew that look. It was the look she wore when she truly listened to music. With closed eyes, one eliminated the distractions of one sense, allowing more attention to be paid to the others, to be paid to the harmonies and crescendos and staccatos of a piece.  
When she stopped, she almost felt guilty for not having more music prepared. He opened his eyes, blinked at her, his expression not unpleasant.  
“I… haven’t played in a while,” she said rather sheepishly.  
“It doesn’t show.” He gave a lopsided smirk. “Are you always this nervous when it comes to performing?”  
She offered a sly grin. “Depends on what we’re talking about,” she purred.  
“I would think it’s obvious.” He took a pull of his cigarette. “You’re quite good with your hands, Shepard.” A slight glint in his electric eyes. “There’s no need to be nervous.”  
“What, you’ve never seen fingers move that fast?”  
He scratched at his lip with his thumbnail as he blew out a stream of smoke. “Perhaps not in this context. I should let you go, Shepard. I’m sure you’ve got better things to do.”  
She raised a brow. “Just like that? I haven’t even gotten to ask about what other context fingers might be involved in.”  
He smirked to himself for a moment, then met her gaze. “Another time, Shepard. Goodbye.”  
He disconnected their call.


	8. Chapter 8

8

He usually didn’t like sex in his office. It tended to cause a mess, one that he would rather not have his employees see.  
But she took him by surprise. She just marched right in, stiletto heels echoing in the wide room, and before he could get her name out, she’d pinned him to his chair, pressing the sole of her shoe to his chest.  
He glanced down at her foot, then her face, a brow raised. His hands slipped to her ankle, gently rubbing and kneading. “Do you need something?”  
She smirked, lids low. She tugged up the slit of her dress just enough to give him a flash of what was beneath.  
Or, rather, what _wasn’t_ beneath.  
His brow raised further, and though his tone rang of gentle reprimanding, he couldn’t help but match her smirk.  
“Carmen—”  
“Jack.”  
His smirk threatened to morph into a frown.  
“Carmen, you know I don’t like—”  
“If you know I know, why bother bringing it up?” she purred. “You’re just thinking too much inside the box.” Of course, she said this as she noted his gaze falling down her body, down to where she had flashed him before.  
“Am I?” he asked, voice low, as his hands crept up to her calf.  
“I think you’re starting to get the idea now,” she replied as he pressed kisses to her knee, then up along her thigh as he pulled her towards him. He hummed in response, his hands at her inner thigh now. She shivered as she exhaled, but sharply drew in another breath as his fingers flicked against her heat, as if by accident. As his lips grazed the pulse that beat beneath the skin of her thigh, the side of his hand slid against her flesh and she gasped and her fingers curled into his shoulders. He pressed two fingertips against her, feeling for her nub, waiting for the telltale tightening of her grip.  
Though she expected his fingers, instead came the tip of his tongue darting at her, rolling over her as his fingers teased around her entrance, penetrating only shallow depths. He smirked when she squirmed and whimpered, and finally gave her what she wanted, two fingers sinking in as deep as he could get them. Her eyes widened and she breathed a curse and keeled over slightly as his fingertips pressed against a certain spot, as he gauged her reaction and returned to that spot with each thrust his fingers took.  
She didn’t last long.  
She was so fast, in fact, that even he was caught off guard.  
He blinked, pulled away, licked his lips, and slowly pulled out of her.  
“Learn something new every day,” he muttered, then grunted softly as her hands pressed to his shoulders and slammed him back against his chair. He eyed her as her lips grazed his fingers, her juices almost gluing them together. His nostrils flared as she took his fingers into her mouth, locking with his gaze as she sucked him clean. His hips tensed and he gripped the arms of his chair as she undid his trousers and pulled out his shaft, her lips kissing at his balls, taking them into her mouth. He hissed and groaned as her tongue curved over him and her hand gripped the base of his member, squeezing gently as her thumb smoothed over his underside. Soon her tongue ran over his shaft, hand loosely pulling. He moaned and fisted a hand into her hair, gathering it away from her face as she took his entire length into her mouth. He gritted his teeth and resisted the urge to buck his hips as she deep-throated him, as her tongue pressed against the base of his cock. After a moment she pulled away, and he was about to ask why but then his eyes rolled back and he let out a long moan as he felt himself slide between her breasts.  
As he neared his peak, he muttered, “Carmen… I—”  
“I know, I know,” she murmured, once more sliding his shaft into her mouth. Hardly a minute later and he spilled into her, his gently trembling hand pressing her head against him. She swallowed as he came, then waited patiently for his hand to relax so she could climb up and kiss his mouth, letting him taste himself on her tongue.  
“I’m not going to be able to concentrate all day because of you,” he muttered.  
“Well, you know what you have waiting for you at night if you make it through the day.”  
He smirked.

 

—

Her voice was like crushed velvet and silk, like his bedroom sheets, and she sang to him as he slept, in between her Arabic crooning, in between kisses to his neck, jaw, and ear, in between gentle curls of her fingers in the silver-brown hair on his chest.  
The first time she sang to him while he was awake, he didn’t look the least bit impressed, nor the least bit surprised. He only watched her, a smile upon his face, one she’d grown accustomed to seeing because it crinkled his visage whenever he looked at her.  
When she asked him why, he simply said, “Because I know you, Carmen.”  
He’d heard her sing before.  
She sang in battle when she set enemies aflame; when her bullets hissed as they parted armor and flesh and buried themselves in bone; when she barked at him as a hologram, her spirit seething and snarling at him, as she cursed him off for whatever thing Cerberus had done in the past. She sang when they made love, when her body rocked atop him, when her lips moved against him; she sang when her fingers flicked over strings and smoothed over a bow, glazed cherry and mahogany.  
She started singing the moment they met.


	9. Chapter 9

9

He slammed her against the glass pane of his bedroom, burying his nose into her neck, inhaling the musk that seeped from every pore in her body. He clawed at her groin, feeling her wetness even through the layers of fabric.  
She loved this time of the month, just before hell rained.  
Her legs were tight around his waist, mouth hungry at his; he ignored the sting of his zipper at his skin as he pounded into her. He tore open her shirt enough to expose a breast, shoving up her bra and gripping at her flesh.  
She gasped and grinned as he grinded against her, his teeth clamped onto her shoulder. He wasn’t usually like this, not usually fierce and greedy; he didn’t usually have a growl on his breath, nor did he press his forehead to hers, eyes locking with hers as one hand gripped at the nape of her neck.  
She pressed a palm to his cheek as they neared their peaks, and they almost forgot where they were, in a station, in a system, in the vast nothing of space. They gave final moans as she clenched around him and he spilled into her, as she ran fingers through his hair and his hands gripped the small of her back, helping her down.  
He sighed as he held her against him, nuzzling her cheek with his.  
How quiet the storm was, in its eye.  
And how blind were they to its fury.

—

In another life, they would have lasted. They would have met, they would have fought, they would have smoldered, burned, and smoked, but they would flourish and bear fruit. They’d plan a huge wedding, the largest their invitees had ever had the honor to have the option of attending, but at the last minute she’d smirk and her eyes would sparkle and she’d say, ‘Forget them, this should be about _us_ ’ and they’d run away together, basking in the heat of their relatives’ fury—only they were loners in the familial sense.  
They’d honeymoon, and it would be as though they’d seen each other for only the first time, as though their bodies were strangers to one another. When they returned, they would dote and date, love and learn. They’d hunt for homes and search for plumbers and mechanics and bicker over what color to paint the bathrooms but in the end, she’d give in to him because she really had no sense for these sorts of things, why would she want to paint the bathroom bright orange?  
They’d make love as though it powered their home, until one couldn’t distinguish between her form and his, until his essence seeped and threaded with hers.  
He was always the cook in the house, but he outdid himself during her pregnancies. Whether he cooked or not, every craving, no matter how insane, was met, every pickle, every ice cube, every midnight trek to the local Chinese joint because she just wanted two chicken dumplings, God damn it, why couldn’t he understand that?—he met them. Through gritted teeth, through tensed shoulders, he may not have always been happy about it, but he knew the alternative was having her bawl against him, clawing at his chest as though he’d wrenched their own newborn from her arms, he drove out at three in the morning because he couldn’t stand to see her like that.  
They’d have kids, two boys and two girls, perfectly flawed puzzles of their parents’ genes. She was always the _fun_ parent, he the more stern, but he was all right with that. He knew balance was important.  
They’d both take time out of their work schedule to see as many ballet recitals and as many school plays as possible, they’d help with homework—and if Dad didn’t know the answer, he damn well knew someone who did—and assign chores and kiss scrapes and read bedtime stories until their kids learned to roll their eyes and scoff and utter a ‘Yeah, right, whatever’ when they were sure their parents couldn’t hear.  
And soon they’d leave the nest and find love stories of their own.  
And those who were once parents were now grandparents as well. Of course they’d spoil the little tykes, sneaking in quarters and candies and letting the kids stay up just one more hour, but these two knew the metabolism of a toddler, and they knew that it wouldn’t happen, anyway.  
And they’d grow old together.  
Some like to see the world, some like to live a life of thrills—not them; they were the only world for one another, they provided all the thrill they needed.  
He’d die a painful death—his habit of smoking would lead to lung cancer. But she would be with him in every moment of his illness, she closed his eyes when he passed, and the pain of being without him would be so unbearable that she would follow in his footsteps not long after.  
In another life, they would have lasted. They would have been different. But still, they would meet the same end.  
In another life, they would still die together.

—

They had nightmares.  
Horrible, vast things that would leave them lost in the cruel void of space, squeezing life from their lungs and loved ones from their grasp until their eyes flew open and their breath caught and they sighed when they realized that all was quiet, there was nothing amiss.  
Both slept heavily enough that neither woke when the nightmares caused the other to move in their sleep.  
When the nightmares woke him, he would turn towards her and skim fingertips over her hair and cheek, watching her breathe for a good and long while before burying himself in the crook of her neck and letting out a quiet shudder.  
She, however, would kiss his temple or forehead—whichever was more easily accessible—and trickle fingers over his chest, watching him breathe for a good and long while, before burying herself in the crook of her neck and letting out a quiet shudder.  
Neither of them ever noticed the slight dampness to their necks upon awakening.

—

They did not part on good terms.  
Each week, he showed her Cerberus’ recent advances in human enhancement technology, and each week she cringed a little bit more at the cruelty of the tests, or the mishaps involved. But he assured her he had the best intentions, and that all casualties and various other horrific injuries were regrettable, but necessary, and she did truly believe him.  
Until she realized he was using Reaper technology.  
She confronted him, and he, knowing that this argument would one day occur, was fully prepared. He patiently waited out her screaming and cursing in order to remind her that it was only practical, that all civilizations are comprised of those that came before them. He told her that anyone they lost knew the cost, and that they were expendable.  
He told her that she could benefit from Cerberus implants.

Oh, how beautiful she would be with blue eyes.


	10. Chapter 10

10

“I see you’ve recruited the Ardat-Yakshi.”  
Shepard crossed her arms. “How did you know?”  
He smirked slightly as he tapped spare ashes into the ashtray. “I’m surprised you bothered to ask, Shepard. You should know by now that intel is my business.”  
She rolled her eyes, and his smirk only grew. “Right, sure. You got any problems?”  
“With Morinth?” He took a drag of his cigarette. “Not at all. I’m intrigued, if anything. This is your mission, Shepard, and I trust in your judgment.”  
She raised a brow at him in disbelief.  
“…You trust me enough to let me keep a killer on my ship?”  
He recrossed his legs. “You’re all killers in someone’s eyes. I’m only worried if you can stay away from her until your mission is concluded.”  
Shepard snorted, then burst into all out laughter. “You trust me to keep her on my ship, but not to keep from fucking her and getting my brain burnt out? You are a fucking piece of work, you know that?”  
His smirk returned. “I’m surprised you bothered to ask, Shepard.”

—

She closed her eyes and embraced the light, letting it take her, bind her, lead her to him.  
Only it never took her that far.

—

[“Moon in My Palm”](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4eEg3PXRPkc)

Her father composed a song. A string quartet, for two cellos and two violins. He took the bass line, wanting his children to shine in harmony and melody.  
And shine they did, like a sunrise with three suns, like galaxies colliding, tears glimmering in a young woman’s eyes as her blood- and sweat-heavy hands cling to the bodies of all she knew oh, how they shone.  
She still played her part of the piece, sometimes. A lone harmony, a swansong lost in the empty echo of space, the last star burning in a hot green-violet.  
Suns could destroy everything when they imploded, when even they fell victim to their own strength.  
When they could no longer bear listening to melodies that would never be there again.

—

Something tugged at him in his sleep, a low sound, a grating sound, one that echoed in his head even as he slumbered.  
His heavy lids slowly lifted and he found the source of what had woken him.  
Carmen was snoring, of all things.  
He groaned softly. He tried closing his eyes, tried pulling back at the threads of sleep but she grew louder and so he fumbled. He looked over his shoulder at her, gently elbowing her to try and get her to rearrange herself so she would quiet down.  
But no luck.  
He pressed his lips into a thin line, and once again looked over his shoulder, this time laying a hand on her shoulder and gently shaking her, murmuring her name.  
Still nothing.  
He grunted, defeated for now, trying once more to resume his sleep.  
But still, she persisted.  
Eventually, he simply gritted his teeth and reached back to smack at her.  
Except his eyes opened when he realized he swung a little too low and there was likely now a bright red mark beneath the silk covering her rump.  
His eyes opened even further when she yelped and flung herself off the bed, landing in a tangle of sheets on the floor.  
She blinked, her surroundings registering, and she looked up at him, brow furrowed in anger.  
“What the _fuck_?” she asked, not yet awake enough to pull herself to her feet.  
“You were snoring!” he replied, swinging his legs over her edge of the bed.  
“So you saw fit to knock me off the bed?” She took the hand he offered to help her up.  
“That was an accident,” he insisted as she bent down to gather up the blankets. She glared at him, shoved the blankets into his arms and flopped back onto the bed, rubbing at the red splotch on her tan skin.  
She squeaked when he pounced her, trapping her in a web of blankets.  
“I can kiss it better, if you like,” he murmured, nuzzling her neck, his left arm wrapped around her waist as his right hand smoothed up her thigh to rest on top of her own hand, gently squeezing.  
“That only works for scraped knees.” She yawned. “Besides. I’m tired.” She gave him a small smile. “But I appreciate the thought.”


	11. Chapter 11

11

She always tried to keep figs hidden away in her cabin. Or, not necessarily hidden per se, but she liked to keep them there. They reminded her of the better days of her childhood. Her father had imported a fig tree to plant in her family’s backyard. It was a decision her mother contested, since it was a fairly expensive process, but he had ordered it in secret against her wishes. It did, admittedly, take some time for her mother’s initial fury to wind down, but by then the figs were in bloom, it was spring, and the air was heavy with blossoms and she just couldn’t be mad at him anymore.  
While that tree bore fruit, the Shepard family would feast upon what seemed like endless amount of figs. Shepard herself—as well as her brothers and mother—would eventually grow sick of the tarts and salads and puddings and jams and pray for the last fig to be stolen away in the night. Which, fortunately, did often happen—Shepard’s father was never good at resisting temptation.  
But come fall, they’d miss the taste, the feeling of quiet joy when that first flower unfolded its petals.  
Shepard herself was never overly fond of the fruit. She liked figs, yes, but she wasn’t head over heels for them like her father. Now, though, they held more meaning than that; they were a link to her childhood, a memory of a better time. Sometimes she’d settle in her cabin with a glass of the best white wine she could find—which was never really that great—and a bowl of the figs and she’d slowly eat them. Their memory would make her remember, their memory would make her forget. They’d relax her, in a time when she had no peace of mind.

—

“I see you’ve met the Shadow Broker.”  
Shepard crossed her arms, her hologram casting a soft blue glow into the Illusive Man’s office. “Figured you might be interested in that.”  
He tapped off his cigarette into his ashtray. “Dr. T’Soni will be a useful ally. She can provide us with intel that our agents may have missed.”  
Shepard’s arms fell to her sides. “Maybe. Who’s to say she’ll cooperate?”  
He blew out a stream of smoke. “I was hoping you would take care of that, Shepard. It would save me a bit of extra work.”  
“Oh? And what do I get in return, hm?” she purred.  
He raised an eyebrow. “Shepard, last week you spent ten thousand credits on aquarium fish and asari dancers, you are in no position to negotiate.”  
“So, how’s Vela Vicious been doing?”  
He hardly twitched at the mention of his most recent liaison.  
“Shepard. Be reasonable.”  
“I am being _perfectly_ reasonable! Maybe I figured it’s high time I give you a taste of your own medicine.”  
He snorted softly. “Sorry to disappoint, but I’m immune.” He took a drag of his cigarette, scratching at his bottom lip with his thumb as smoke curled from his nostrils. He smirked, knowing the perfect way to distract her from… whatever it was she wanted. “You’ll have to deal with your jealousy on your own, I’m afraid.”  
She blinked. Of course, his strategy had worked. “Y—wh—jealous why the hell would I be _jealous_ what kind of adolescent idiot do you th—I mean—….. _ff_ —!”  
He chuckled after she’d disconnected.

—

It was strange for him to be called by name again, to put it simply. Every time she said it, every time she called for him, his eyes glazed over a bit, as though he were lost in time for a moment.  
Jack Harper.  
Jack.  
 _Harper._  
It didn’t feel like him anymore.  
Jack Harper was hardly above an ordinary mercenary.  
The Illusive Man led one of the most brutal and advanced organizations in the traverse.  
Jack Harper was a man who laughed when he was happy, yelled when he was angry, cried when stricken by grief—though only in private; he did tend to cling to the old stigma that men shouldn’t cry.  
The Illusive Man’s visage was one of brushed steel; there was an air of keen beauty to the way with which he feigned emotion, injecting just the perfect amount of compassion and earnest into his apologies in order to make them appear sincere, or using a subtle edge of fury and threat in order to assure that he would get his way.  
Jack Harper was a man who thought that one day, after this whole conflict with the aliens was over and he could return to his home on Earth, he wouldn’t mind finding a nice wife and settling down and having a few kids.  
The Illusive Man had no room for such petty desires; he had to give all of himself for the cause, for the greater good, for humanity. Hell, letting himself have Shepard was a dangerous risk, and he knew it.  
But he couldn’t say no to that. Much as the Illusive Man would deny himself just this one woman, so different from the rest, this one woman who was more than a body to him, more than a vessel in which he could find release—  
Much as the Illusive Man would see the need to sacrifice himself, Jack Harper could not. Jack Harper was but a man, and the Illusive Man a god.  
But she loved the man.  
And the man loved her.  
And the god was one that did not forgive.


	12. Chapter 12

12

When she climbed off him after their fourth time that night, his breathing was haggard, heavy, he was drenched in sweat and exhausted.  
“Want another round?” she purred, laying on her stomach, her legs swinging lazily. One hand smoothed over the sheen of his chest while the other provided a rest for her chin.  
He couldn’t even muster enough strength to say “No;” instead he feebly shook his head, one hand rubbing at his face.  
“You need to smoke less,” she chastised. His hand stopped, remaining plastered against the far side of his face as he raised a brow at her, the cybernetics in his eyes glowing brightly in the dimness.  
“Let’s see you sleep with someone almost half your age and keep up easily.” He blinked and pursed his lips as he realized what he said, the hand on his face moving to clap onto the back of the hand she had on his chest.  
Shepard giggled. “Jack, I think I’d still be at an advantage, there. Fifteen-year-olds tend to have trouble keeping up for different reasons.”  
“Right,” he mumbled, his eyes drifting closed.  
“Tired?” she asked, nuzzling against his neck. He hummed in response, the vibrations traveling from his chest through her arm. He wrapped his own arm around her shoulders, pulling her close and pressing a lazy kiss to her hairline.  
“What am I supposed to do then, hmm? What if I was looking forward to another round?”  
He grunted softly, and reached his hand down her back to goose her. She yelped, and the corner of his mouth lifted, his hand retreating to rub the small of her back.  
“You’ll live, Carmen.” He stifled a yawn. “You always do.”

—

“You took Project Overlord into your own hands.” He didn’t even wait for her hologram to fully assemble before he began speaking.  
“You’re damn right I did!” she yelled, pointing an accusatory finger at him. “That was _sick_ what his brother did to him!”  
“I’m surprised, Shepard,” he replied, containing his anger, “You’re usually more pragmatic than this.”  
“Don’t call it pragmatism,” she spat, “What I saw was utter _cruelty_!”  
“Our research there, what we learned, could save millions of innocent lives. Unfortunately, we’ll be saving much fewer lives thanks to your decision to end it.”  
“But was it worth—was it worth the amount of _pain_ David Archer went through, did you even _see_ him? His own damn brother did that to him, you do _not_ put family through things like that!” Her red-glinting eyes were wide with rage, her tightly-clenched hands almost trembling. He allowed a pause before he began to speak once more.  
“You’re telling me,” he said slowly, “that a single blood tie is enough to justify torrents of innocent blood?”  
Her lip curled and her scarred skin and red eyes startled him enough that he failed to completely veil his emotions. Luckily, however, his fingertips only clenched his armrests for a moment.  
“Don’t you try to _justify_ that, you sick bastard, you—”  
“And what would you have had me do, Shepard?” he asked, his fury finally beginning to ebb into his tone, his jaw clenching just slightly. “I needed to know if I could graft a human mind to a geth interface, and now, thanks to you, I’ll never truly understand if I can. Protecting humanity requires sacrifices, Shepard, ones that I had _thought_ you were willing to make.”  
“Humanity doesn’t have to destroy its soul in order to save itself!”  
He closed his eyes for a moment, wishing he’d lit a cigarette prior to their conversation. Instead he took a slow breath, ignoring the itch to light up as he chose his next words. “Shepard, don’t think that I _enjoy_ all of what I have to do. I’m not a monster, I don’t revel in others’ pain. But I can’t ignore the potential of projects such as Overlord simply because someone may get hurt. I’ve learned to think beyond that, Shepard.” He let out a soft sigh through his nostrils, his gaze softening for an instant. “I thought you had, too.”

—

She lost him on Mars.

Even through the hologram she saw the clouded aqua in his eyes, the desperation clawing in them, the absolution they had made him reach.  
They.  
The Reapers.  
She saw it in the eyes of the Cerberus trooper corpse, the scarred blue, and the way he assured her that no, he wasn’t _hurting_ them, he was only making them stronger.  
She’d found glimpses of such research in her time spent on Cronos Station, on one occasion when he’d left to visit some Cerberus facility—one that she soon found out was the location of an experiment which injected a man with Reaper nanotechnology. He’d trusted her enough to leave her alone—which, frankly, she was surprised at, given how he had suggested she would do well with Cerberus implants, and how furiously she’d reacted to the idea.  
But she used her hacking abilities to get inside his system, though it truly wasn’t that difficult—he obviously didn’t expect anyone else to ever assume his place in his chair.  
What she found horrified her: tests and experiments that only grew in cruelty as time progressed. She knew him as a man who knew his own limits, who would stop before a project truly went too far, but it was clear to her then that he was no longer that man.  
Their encounter on Mars confirmed this.  
Jack was truly dead, and in his stead there was only corruption.  
She left Cronos Station and its dying star behind.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [](http://angelicaalzona.tumblr.com/post/3271398998/my-blood-wont-stick-to-the-confines-of-my-veins)  
>   
>  art by [angelica alzona](http://angelicaalzona.tumblr.com/), used with permission.

13

He had hoped she would have understood.  
He had tried to make it clear to her that he did what he did with good reason, that he did not like making people suffer but that he thought it was necessary.  
He knew there was no way his endless hordes of soldiers would stop her, but they would slow her down. Maybe then he would have enough time to make her see the truth. Maybe then she would see that he was only trying to protect humanity, to uplift it.  
To protect _her_.

—

He still clawed at her in dreams.  
They’d run towards each other, growing forever nearer but never reaching one another, until finally flames began to consume him and his eyes would finally flicker and die.  
She’d wordlessly touch at his ashes but they’d burn her and she’d wince and flinch away but they would jump at her, digging into her skin and searing like acid as they covered her and she drowned in him.  
She’d wake up drenched in sweat and tears.  
And they burned.

—

“We all die alone. It’s what you’ve done that defines you.”  
She’d spoken the words to Cortez to aid him in his grieving over his lost husband. But as the words formed on her tongue, she realized the weight they held with her.  
It’s what you’ve _done_ that defines you.  
And what did she do? She was in love with the most hated man in the universe—what he once was, anyway.  
But truly, she thought, it was more what she _hadn’t_ done that defined her.  
She should’ve killed him when she’d had the chance.

—

EDI asked Shepard a question. It was innocent in nature, but as with Shepard’s conversation with Cortez, it settled a bit heavier than it should have.  
 _“How do you know when someone is romantically invested?”_  
She took a slightly staggering breath, thankful that EDI didn’t seem to notice, and pondered the question for a moment.  
 _When they’d give you the world, she thought. No, only that wasn’t it at all. When they’d tear the world apart, you included, if it meant—_  
But that didn’t make any sense at all.  
She sighed and suggested EDI read magazine columns on the topic instead, but she still thought while she spoke.  
 _Someone’s invested when… they’d destroy everything around you if only to see you rise ag—…No, damn it._ Try as she might, she couldn’t justify anything he had done simply because he might still love her.  
Were he still with her, were he still here, he would tell her it was the smart thing to move on, to leave him behind.  
 _…He would want to protect me._  
“Shepard?” EDI asked again, peering at her Commander to ensure she hadn’t nodded off during their conversation.  
Shepard hummed, frantically trying to remember the last thing the synthetic had said. Something about taking Joker to a comedy show. Shepard had been against any relationship between them at first; something occurring between man and machine simply seemed sick. But… she couldn’t deny them this. She couldn’t deny them the chance to be with someone for whom they cared. She may have a tendency to be arrogant and strict, but she wasn’t cruel.  
 _Not like him._ She regretted thinking this immediately after the words floated through her head, but, of course, she couldn’t change it now.  
“Nobody fell in love without being a little bit brave,” she said to EDI as words of encouragement.  
 _Brave…Or masochistic._  
God. She missed him.

—

She could almost feel him ebbing away from her in what became their last days together. Each day he grew more distant, focusing more intently on his work than he ever had when she was with him; each night their lovemaking seemed less like heavy flames and more like cold clockwork.  
She knew it wouldn’t be long before he was gone from her, before he slipped through her fingers and became the darkness below.


	14. Chapter 14

14

The Reapers had to be careful with the Illusive Man. They knew he was valuable, more valuable than any other vessel they had ever had, or would have.  
Except for Shepard, anyway. But if there was anyone who could bring her to them, it was him. And if he failed in that task, then it was nothing gained, nothing lost. It would be a tolerable mistake.  
But the Illusive Man was smart. He was more aware than any other targets of what they were capable of, and this truly was an obstacle. They could not speak to him directly, for the very moment he became suspicious of them, suspicious of himself, he’d order that he be locked away, or perhaps he’d even take care of the problem before it started with a quick bullet to the temple. Instead, they had to linger far back in the recesses of his unconscious mind, quietly filtering through the vast banks of knowledge within his brain where they would not be detected, slowly sinking their roots within him until they had full control.  
But still he was not aware.  
With their help, he brought Shepard back to life. They gave him the inspiration to even attempt the act, they gave him the influence to convince enough corporations to give him funding for whatever excuses he made up to cover up the project. They would not let him stop until his scientists found a way to bring her back, thanks to the knowledge that the Reapers helped him discover.  
They left him mostly alone for the entirety of her mission. They’d leave hints in the back of his mind, ideas for how to lure the Collectors here or there, who she should recruit, but his words were his own, and she remained untouched by them.  
They were surprised when the two developed feelings for one another.  
Eager to have her in their grasp, they cautiously increased their hold on him, constantly afraid that the next moment, she would be gone from the station and their chance would be lost. But human attachment did not fail them—they were pleased that she stayed so long, but frustrated when their efforts proved futile again and again.  
Their hold was only so strong as their vessel was weak-willed—but the Illusive Man was strong under normal circumstances. And now, he was faced with someone he loved, someone whom he had sent to hell and back, someone with whom he knew he had only limited time.  
So they grew rash, they grew arrogant, and they clenched at him and they were revealed to him and he fought back. He managed to stave them off, yes, but he knew not for how long. He didn’t want to simply tell her to leave with no explanation—she’d outright refuse. Instead, he did something that surprised even them: he suggested that she take on Cerberus implants. She knew the origins of that technology, and he knew she would react poorly. She did not leave immediately, which disappointed him. The Reapers, however, had a sliver of hope left that they might still take control of her once he returned into their hands.  
And they might have done so if they had not continued to be more aggressive with the Illusive Man.  
But their actions made him grow cold to her; for all their infinite knowledge, the Reapers still could not feign true organic nature.  
And how it pained him to touch her but not feel her, to kiss her but not taste her, to love her but not need her.  
It put his mind at ease when she was finally gone, if only for a moment. He could feel the Reapers now, whispering in the back of his mind, but he still believed he could fight them, defeat them—but only because of their influence did he think this.  
However, there was still one tiny tendril of his mind that was itself. This was his weapon, this was what infiltrated the Reapers, _this_ was what discovered the power to control.  
This he found, and to this he clung. Control was his downfall, after all—but perhaps it could be his savior.

—

April rains make way for the blossoms of May.  
Shepard was born in April, but the weather could not be called simply “rains”. Not accurately, anyway. She was born in thundersnow, a type of storm that was rare on earth, but not so uncommon on Mindoir.  
Once she was born, the sounds of thunder terrified her, of course; she was only a baby, after all. But the first few years of her life tended to be particularly stormy, perhaps due to the long drought that had occurred before. She soon lost her fear of the thunder; in fact, she began to find the sound soothing. On nights when she simply would not cease her cries, her parents would sigh with relief if they heard the rumble of thunder overhead.  
Thundersnow followed her, it seemed. At the beginning of each spring, some storm or another would hit, and despite her parents protests she would race outside to watch the violet-platinum lightning streak across the sky, as well as shimmer in the snow that rested below. She’d only have enough time to catch a few flakes on her tongue before her father would scoop her up and bring her back inside just before the true downpour began. Then, she’d be resigned to sitting by her window sill, watching the cold flashes of ice and heat battle with each other outside the safety of her home’s walls.  
She always rooted for the lightning in this fight of nature. It was destructive but beautiful, reckless but precise. When she was very small, she had dreams of being lightning when she grew up, but as she grew older she realized that that was silly. She never lost the admiration for it, though.  
She never found her snow, either. She never found her ice, her sharp and piercing cold.  
Not until she was older, anyway. 

—

She wasn’t sure if she deserved the memoir Liara offered to make of her.  
Sure, she was Commander Shepard and all that, she was leading the battle against the Reapers in a sense, but she couldn’t help but think of all the times she’d failed, all the people she’d lost and would still lose as time progressed.  
She couldn’t help but think of that which she should have killed but did not, _could_ not.  
But she couldn’t dwell on that. War has casualties. War has error. War has heroes and villains, much as she’d like to see things only in monochrome.  
No. If this capsule Liara was creating was going to aid any future efforts, they needed to know that someone had come close.  
“Make me a hero,” she said. After all, she wasn’t sure if she could do that herself.

—

She liked to watch him in the morning.  
She liked to watch him shave, she liked to watch him shower—so much so that she often joined in—she liked to watch him get dressed and towel dry his hair and comb it, which sometimes she would do because he liked the feel of her fingertips scratching at his scalp, and sometimes she’d lean forward and whisper something in his ear that would make him smirk and he’d tell her not now, it was too early and she knew he had work. But she’d plead and purr and nip at his ear, but he’d just peck her on the lips and go off to have his morning coffee.  
Which she would then watch him drink, of course.


	15. Chapter 15

15

Jack—the Illusive Man had been correct.  
The Reapers _could_ be controlled.  
Of course, only Leviathan had shown the ability to do so, but if it was possible for one being, it might be possible for another.  
She knew he was gone, but maybe he wouldn’t have been lost in vain.  
There might still be hope.

—

This war required sacrifices.  
Tuchanka proved that. _Mordin_ proved that. She knew he had it in him—she simply didn’t think he’d go there.  
She wondered if she could go there, should the need be present. She wondered if she was yet ready to surpass the role of hero and assume that of a martyr.

She heard screams in her dreams that night—screams, whispers, pleas, gentle brushes of voice and tremor.  
And his eyes were there. She couldn’t see them, but she could certainly feel their cold bright blue burning at the nape of her neck, the curve of her spine.  
She knew well enough that he would never be able to die for his cause; it was, after all, why the Reapers had been able to finally secure a lasting hold on him.  
But she could be able to, she thought. She had to be able to, she’d come too far to do otherwise.  
He was gone and that dearth was fruitless.  
Shepard would be different.

—

“You sure we had to do that?” one Cerberus trooper said to another.  
“Direct orders. He stopped being useful.”  
After Shepard had killed the two, she found that they had been standing over the freshly-killed corpse of a C-Sec officer.  
It was no wonder the Illusive Man wanted her dead.

—

“I’m surprised you let Shepard get the better of you, Leng.”  
The Illusive Man lied often, almost constantly. It was impossible for anyone who had ever had the fortune to speak with him to tell apart his dishonesties from anything else. Even Kai Leng, his bladed right hand, was none the wiser when he spoke.  
But that phrase—that phrase gave Leng pause.  
The Illusive Man was exhausted, that much was apparent. Incredibly so, if it led to his guise slipping for just that moment. All he wanted was victory, and he had spent so long pursuing it.  
It did not bother Leng that his superior lied to him; he was head of Cerberus, after all, he had every right to. For a brief moment he did wonder why the Illusive Man even bothered to lie, since Leng could very well take criticism.  
It only bothered him that the Illusive Man knew that Shepard was more skilled than he, and did not bother warning Leng so that he might be more cautious, so that he might revise his plan of action.  
Victory should not be so lofty a goal, after all.

—

She found a kindred spirit in Cortez.  
He was the only to whom she came close to confiding about the Illusive Man. She only told him that she too had lost one who was close to her, as close as Rob had been to Cortez. Cortez, luckily, wasn’t the prying type, but he understood that Shepard was sincere in her meaning.  
On occasion they would sit together in the rec room on the Normandy, cocktails in hand, telling lighthearted stories. Cortez would recall how horrid of a cook Rob was, and Shepard would remark that it was she who had no luck in the kitchen in her relationship. But as the liquor sank in, their pain clawed out from beneath their skin, their spirits broke and tears fell and they’d curl up beside one another, lamenting in the binding void of loss.  
He was almost shocked at her tears, he’d later realize; he’d never seen her so vulnerable, he wasn’t sure if anyone had. Always the image of strength and perseverance, and there she had been, a weak mass of flesh and bone that shivered beside him.  
In her pain she had whispered, words almost smothered by the salt water droplets that followed the lines of her lips but through the blur he could just barely make out,  
 _“I miss you, Jack.”_

—

“After everything he’s done, the Illusive Man can’t say he’s fighting for humanity. Anyone who’s not indoctrinated has to see that by now.”  
The words simply left her, she didn’t even have to think about them.  
Well.  
At least she knew she wasn’t indoctrinated.

—

“And the Illusive Man?” Kaidan asked.  
“Was he a good person?” she carefully replied.  
“Once? Ever?”  
“Well, he gave me what I needed to stop the Collectors.” Like _hell_ she was going to tell him anything, this was the man who constantly questioned if she was still Shepard. In fact, she had a hunch that that was what he was doing right now.  
“Right, exactly. But so you never saw this coming from them? …From him?”  
She eyed him. There was no way he could know, _no_ one knew save for herself, the Illusive Man himself, and those who looked after Cronos Station, who were such Cerberus fanatics that they’d never even dream of betraying him, or Cerberus.  
“Sorry,” he sighed, “I’m not sure what I’m looking for you to say here. I guess I’m just looking for some sort of insight on the Illusive Man… something.”  
“…Back then he wanted what was best for humanity, and he had resources to spare. But then it became humanity first, and at any cost and that… That’s a very different thing. But this? No. I never saw this coming from him.”  
Kaidan gave her a long look. Shepard wondered if she hadn’t let extra weight slip into her words, some sort of clue that she had known the Illusive Man’s goals better than anyone. Or, so she thought, anyway.  
But he nodded, biting at the inside of his cheek.  
“Huh. Thanks, Shepard.”  
It was only then that she’d noticed how tightly she’d clenched her fists.


	16. Chapter 16

16

It was unusual, really.  
He’d lit a cigarette—a perfectly normal action—and he’d wrapped his lips around the filter and took a slow, deep breath and—  
 _her._  
A slight tingle on his lips, and a sort of dryness to his tongue. Memories of her, touching at his feet and climbing upwards, whispering and kissing until he frowned and his brow furrowed and now? Really? He didn’t have time for this, he had people to protect, an organization to run. But she persisted: true to her spirit, she nagged and teased as he worked, until he lost his focus and decided to start his evening early. He figured perhaps that he’d been working too much, that he needed a break. And she left him alone through dinner, through his evening decaf, and through most of his evening reading.  
But her image returned to him, nipping at his neck and brushing fingers through his hair and _God_ , he missed her, he really did, but he couldn’t help her now and he had to be at peace with that. For a moment he managed to return to his book but she did not cease, and suddenly her scent filled his nostrils once more, his fingertips twitched at remembering the hard muscles beneath her curves, and his head tilted back and his lips parted as though they expected hers to meet them. He shivered as his blood raced, and dropped his book on the sidetable. His palm pressed at the stiff curve in his slacks, having a hard time remembering the last time he’d resorted to his own hands to satisfy himself. He shook his head, seeking to empty his thoughts of everything but her, she who he fought so hard to forget, she who fought so hard to make him remember. As he unzipped his trousers and touched his shaft, he thought of her lips and hair and the contour of her neck and _oh_ , he’d almost forgotten how that felt. He let out a quiet sigh as his hand moved, letting his head rest against the back of his armchair.  
His hands weren’t as soft as hers.  
He remembered when he watched her hologram from his office, when he tried hard not to flash a downright filthy grin at her as she slipped lace from her shoulders and touched herself.  
His hands couldn’t move like her mouth.  
He remembered when she’d somehow found his station and slipped right into his lap, when his desire overcame his fury and he had only fired a dozen people for letting her get past the security system.  
Nothing could even _compare_ to looking down in his lustful stupor and seeing her eyes flash at him, a sable-haired goddess with a halo crafted from a dying star.  
He remembered when they just held each other in his bedroom with the window’s shutter closed, dancing in slow, small circles, relying on only touch and smell and the light of their eyes to find their way in the dark.  
His muscles clenched and his hips bucked and yes, God, he remembered the friction of her hips against his, the sting of her nails as they dragged down his chest, and the whimpering hiss she made on the rare occasions when he pressed the dying embers of his cigarette into her hips, their golden-olive turned red from the impact of his palms fuck, yes, thank you.  
And the guilt.  
He washed his hands clean of himself, and stared at his reflection for a long moment. He frowned, closed his eyes and bent down to splash water over his face, letting the droplets trickle down beneath the collar of his shirt.  
He remembered.

—

As she gunned down the last ardat-yakshi in the Reaper-ridden monastery, she couldn’t help but think, _I wonder how Morinth is doing._

—

In the shadow of the blue-chrome walls of the temple, she saw his eyes were clouded and gone.

It horrified her when what he said made sense.  
If the Reapers _truly_ wanted organic life gone, they would have eliminated it—they certainly had the means, after all.  
But it couldn’t just be as simple as that. 

_“Don’t assume you know me,”_ he said.  
It pained her, how characteristic of him the phrase was.

 _“Humanity,”_ he had said, _“Could be so much more.”_

—

She cried every night.  
She just wanted an end to it all.

—

She cradled Miranda’s head in her hands, her own mind empty, pulsing with nothing, cold and dark and throbbing in its numbness. Eyes wide and shocked, she bent her head down to press one dry kiss against the other woman’s forehead.  
In better times, she would have brushed it off. Soldiers die in war, and that’s all this was.  
But she knew this was her fault.  
She had refused to give Miranda information, knowledge that could have warned her of Kai Leng.  
 _“You deserved more,”_ she murmured—but not completely to Miranda.


	17. Chapter 17

17

So there it was. She would be returning back to Cronos Station. She even recognized the coordinates—in fact, the station hadn’t moved at all. Or perhaps he’d moved it back there. It made him nostalgic, maybe. Or perhaps it just made him hurt, and the Reapers couldn’t take that away from him.  
She vomited the night after Sanctuary. She vomited before she boarded Cronos. Her own body refused to be of the universe, so conflicted was she, a body struck through with hate and revenge and cold and love. To have the whole galaxy pitted against her, the whole universe, even, she could not bear. She could have handled the Reapers alone, she could have handled a pure enemy, she could handle black and white.  
But he was only too many shades of grey.

—

She stared at her hands, forearms braced on the edge of the countertop of her bathroom sink. Her fingers hung beneath the faucet, the water running over dry and peeling skin.  
Water that felt heavy.  
She wore an expression that echoed shock. That echoed existence.  
Just a little further, she told herself, and it’ll all be over.

—

_“Break,”_ she said, _“I just want to_  
                                                     _break."_

—

“The hell was that for?” Kaidan yelled, pressing a hand to his jaw, where Shepard’s fist had landed moments ago. However, she was already walking through the door when he spoke, her nostrils flared and jaw set.  
“Shepard!” he called after her, grunting when his jaw smarted, once more applying hesitant fingers to the tender flesh.  
She didn’t turn back once—she simply marched on over to the elevator and did not give him a single second glance.  
He scowled, and headed to the medbay for treatment. He’d just tell Chakwas he’d stumbled and hit a bulkhead; she probably wouldn’t believe him, but it would shift the blame from Shepard. The woman was probably stressed out of her mind, he couldn’t really blame her.  
He mostly wanted to know why she’d punched him for calling the Illusive Man a murderous asshole.


	18. Chapter 18

18

She was curled into him, dropping kisses onto his shoulder as her palm idly rubbed at his chest. He was sleeping, his breath skimming over her hair and brushing against her skin in a slow, steady rhythm.  
They had no blankets—those had been tossed off the bed either by accident or on purpose in the activity of the preceding hours. Or so she thought, anyway, until she glanced down and saw a single tempest-gray silk blanket clinging to the foot of the bed with all its might. She gently pulled away from him, though the hand he had clasped to her waist offered some resistance, and reached down to snag the blanket between her fingertips and pull it up over them. His sleeping body grunted quietly in response, rolling onto his side, loosely cradling her in his arms. She shivered once—oddly enough, not because of cold, but of contentment.  
He reacted to her, however, by pulling her even closer. Even asleep, he thought of everything. Her ear caught against his chest, and she heard the faint resonance of his heartbeat. She pressed her ear fully against his skin and closed her eyes, the quiet sound reverberating through her.  
She thought she could die happy, lying there.

—

Their bodies rocked in rhythm, aching, sweating beings that clung to each other with every inch available  
         He dropped down beneath her edges and his lips sang to her, melodies of touch and  
                  Her knees trembled and she fell backwards—  
                                                 or did he bring her down—  
                      eyes flashing from between her legs  
             She tilted her head back and curved her spine and, oh  
                                                                                                   oh—  
 _oh._  
    peace for a moment.

—

Perhaps it was heaven.

—

She played a piece for him, once.  
 _[Seduction](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GtoXWICX-Mk)_ , it was called.  
A favorite, as it were.

—

“I’m not looking for a dance partner,” he’d said so long ago.  
That line managed to make her smirk for an instant. After all, he’d found one, anyway.


	19. Chapter 19

19

The video log.  
He’d used Cerberus research—Reaper tech—on himself.  
He’d given himself to the Reapers.  
He took his own life.  
And by God, she would make the Reapers pay.

—

_Shepard… I’m sorry._  
And his world went dark.

—

She stumbled, gripped the console, but her hand slipped and she heard the recording again and she trembled.  
“Shepard?” both EDI and Javik said in unison. EDI placed a light hand on Shepard’s shoulder.  
“Are you all right?”  
“Fine. Just… Exhausted. I guess.”  
“It will be over soon, Commander,” came Javik’s terse reply—though he was not without concern.  
“That’s what they keep telling me,” she sighed.

—

The labs were familiar.  
The hallway and the black-tiled incline even more so.  
But the office, spotless glass and obsidian, was foreign without him in it.

“Commander,” Javik began, slowing his pace as he entered the room, “You have been here before.”  
She gripped the back of the chair.  
“I have,” she said, her voice uneven.  
“Would you care to explain yourself?” he replied, anger rising.  
The look she gave him made him take a single step back—though not for her anger; it was her pain that shocked him.  
“I… apologize. I should not have—” he paused when she offered her hand to him. He gave her a skeptic look, then reached out to take her hand and  
Everything.  
He saw everything, felt everything, he knew it all.  
He ripped his hand from hers, looking at it, then at her.  
“You… and him.”  
“Shepard!” EDI said, though sounding almost heartbroken.  
“EDI, I—”  
“No, Shepard. I… knew.”  
“But… he said he would erase everything from your memory.”  
EDI shook her head. “Not completely. The technician erased the files, but not my reactions to it. I knew you two were involved but not to what extent. However I gathered that yours was a relationship that should not be made public, especially given the Illusive Man’s desire to eliminate all record of it.”  
Shepard remained silent.  
“…Shepard?” EDI said.  
She steeled her visage, glaring at the once familiar sun before her, and sat down.

And there, the one line she’d never expected to dread:

_“Shepard—you’re in my chair.”_

—

“You haven’t worn your hair up in a long time.” Shepard still managed to find a scrap of comfort in Liara’s warm voice.  
“No,” Shepard replied, absentmindedly touching her hair. “No I haven’t.”  
Liara’s brow furrowed. “Shepard, are you all right?”  
She set her jaw, looked the asari straight in the eye and pulled her close. Liara let out a small sound of surprise, then returned the embrace, pretending not to notice the sparse tears dripping down Shepard’s cheek.

—

_it was running running fire rock and death and oh the pain the white heat of her armor burning into her flesh again it was almost familiar maybe she could finally see him again—  
           wait_

—

His skin charred with black and diode blue, his eyes blazing and cold, he was everything she never wanted to see.

—

His skin tearing black at the seams, eyes flashing with rage, he yelled, “The two of you, so self-righteous! Do you think power like this comes easy? There are sacrifices!”  
“Jack,” she croaked. She didn’t care what Anderson thought of the name, they were as good as dead now. “You’ve sacrificed too much.”  
For a moment she saw fear in him.  
“Shepard, I…” He spoke in earnest. “I only wanted to protect humanity.”  
“I know, Jack,” she murmured. “But it’s not too late. Let us go, and we’ll do the rest.” Her cheeks ached but her eyes gave no tears. She was too tired for that.  
“I… I can’t do that.”  
“Of course you can’t! They own you now,” Anderson said through gritted teeth.  
“You’d undo everything I’d accomplished. I won’t let that happen.”  
She shook her head. “Because of you humanity is undone.”  
“I only—I just need to—”  
“You’ve done exactly what the Reapers wanted you to do, Jack! You’re theirs, now.”  
“I… They’re too strong!”  
“You’re stronger, I _know_ you are! Break their hold, don’t let them keep you!”

And he looked at her, and Jack returned to her.  
“I... tried, Carmen.” He stared at the pistol in his hands. “I’m sorry.” Pressed the nozzle to his temple. “I love you.”  
It was the first time he’d said it out loud. Shame it had to be punctuated with a gunshot.  
“No!” she cried, but the deed had been done, the trigger pressed and his eyes as cold as ever as he fell to the ground. She ignored her wounds and ran to him, even as Anderson fell. She eased his head into her lap, and wiped the blood from his tainted flesh, though only succeeded in smearing her own on him in the process.  
“My poor Jack,” she whispered, skimming fingertips over his red-stained hair until the repeated motion made her bruised and broken arm scream.  
“You and him, huh?” came Anderson’s weak voice. She nodded once as she folded Jack’s hands on his chest. “Carmen—”  
“Don’t call me that,” she snapped, her voice cracking and trembling and every single fiber of her being preparing to fall apart.  
Anderson sighed. “I’m sorry,” he murmured.  
And her breath caught and she bent over Jack as she sobbed, fingers digging into the linen of his suit, her forehead pressed to his as her tears flowed down onto his skin, down his cheeks. Soon, though, she knew she had a job to do, and she gently placed his head back on the floor and went to the Citadel’s main console, opening the station’s arms.  
She just kept telling herself she was almost there.

—

He had been right, after all.  
And so she would take his place.  
She could be their master, instead.


	20. Chapter 20

20

            electricity running through her flesh, veins, atoms, her skin was flashing white and blue  
            her muscles bare and glimmering, free from their bindings  
            it didn’t really hurt so much.  
                   she lost her grip for a moment but remembered ‘this is for him’ and gripped until her knuckles were white only a second later they weren’t there anymore  
                              drifting  
                              burning  
                              biting away

she could feel him in her arms again.

     and in this way, the world became  
                                                              perfect.


End file.
